


shattered stars

by foreverephemeral



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poetry, a sort of detached melancholy, might continue this if i feel motivated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 02:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12159741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreverephemeral/pseuds/foreverephemeral
Summary: his mother left him. but he keeps pieces of her with him always, in the box under his bed. // inspired by keith's vlog.





	shattered stars

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to tuesdayandtuesday. you're the very best.

in the box under his bed:

 

            i.

            the sun-bleached skull of a bird: a raven,

            probably, its eye holes large and empty

            pits, the tip of the beak still a black

            bow-curve around the hollows of its

            nostrils. a gift from his mother,

            who knew he liked that sort of thing,

            who herself liked that sort of thing,

            the brittle feel of bone beneath slow,

            uncertain fingertips. the reminder of

            death without the mess, the blood

            and guts. just old, old bone. so old

            the dead one itself had forgotten

            who killed it. no guilt. no leftover

            malevolence. just a memory, beginning

            to fade in the gaze of the white-hot sun.

            she found it, this skull, this macabre,

            beloved thing, in the desert, she said.

            she went there often, alone. sometimes

            creeping out before dawn, or perhaps

            after dark, chucking him under

            the chin with a grin and a promise to be

            back by morning. and she always came

            back. always kept that promise. until

            once, when she didn’t. but he doesn’t

            like to think about that much, these days.

 

            he never knew what she did out there,

            his mother, in the sun-scorched desert,

            or what she was looking for. just that

            she was looking for something.

            something big. something important.

            something that didn’t want to be found,

            hidden away among the towering cliffs,

            or maybe beneath the earth, sleeping.

            hidden somewhere safe, somewhere

            known only to the ravens. and they are

            good secret-keepers, these black birds.

            he knows. he’s asked them. but no matter

            how hard he pleads, they never reveal

            where she went, or if she found it, that

            something that she was looking for.

 

            ( later, he finds it, that secret cave,

            the secret marks, the secret location

            of a weapon that doesn’t belong to this

            planet. it never occurs to him that maybe,

            she didn’t belong to this planet, either.

            but there’s not much room for questions

            when you’re in a flying lion in space. )

 

.

.

.

 

            ii.

            a crumpled paper flower, and a card,

            tightly folded: the remains of a long-past

            mother’s day, after she left them.

 

            left him.

 

            fourth grade: they made

            an assignment out of it, taught

            small fingers to fold so carefully

 

            paper into petals, layer upon layer

            of saccharine color. and the card:

            construction paper, purple,

 

            ( her favorite color )

 

            folded hamburger-style, not hot-dog

            and decorated with a clumsy Magic

            Marker depiction of a black-haired

 

            boy and a woman, both smiling,

            both happy. a memory from a time

            he’s starting to forget how to remember.

 

            a time he can’t remember how

            ( though he tries, how he tries )

            to forget.

 

            but he does remember this:

            the inside of the card, a mess

            of carefully chosen words,

 

            sentiments he still couldn’t quite

            express. a marker, black, held

            tight in his fist, hovering over

 

            the page. over the words

            I LOVE YOU. he wrote them,

            but he paused, uncertain.

 

            then,

            carefully,

            crossed them out.

 

            KEITH,

            he wrote instead. one word.

            a reminder of what she’d willingly

 

            left behind.

 

            ( many, many mother’s days

            later, he keeps them anyway.

            a wish, a prayer. a hope

            he’s unwilling to give up

            just yet. )

 

.

.

.


End file.
